“Which would you read?” Darcy asked.
“That is perfectly good, I have liked the Knight’s Tale well enough.”
Elizabeth rested her head against his shoulder. The lines of their bodies pressed together in the bed, Elizabeth’s dress against Darcy’s night robe. He reached over and placed his hand over her knee, and she squeezed it.
Darcy thought about kissing her, but it would hurt to roll onto his side, and he certainly could not hold himself above her the way that he had imagined he might.
Their eyes caught, and she smiled shyly at him, and looked down.
She placed a hand on Darcy’s thigh, right as he yawned widely.
Elizabeth laughed. “You found the travel harder than you anticipated.”
“I did,” Darcy said, feeling rather embarrassed, though he could not quite say about what. But he also felt as though any such embarrassment did not matter, since Elizabeth was with him, and she was not unhappy.
“You look as though you are about to sleep.” She smiled at him, kissed him on the forehead, and said, “This is not quite the same as myotherwedding night, but I have enjoyed it—would you wish me still to read?”
It took Darcy several seconds to rouse himself sufficiently to answer.
As soon as she began to read Darcy found himself drifting off, before she even made it through the prologue. He wished to focus on the moment. He wished this evening would last forever.
When Darcy woke up in the morning, the bed was tilted slightly to the side and surprisingly warm. He shook himself awake, and in the early dawn light he found Elizabeth lying asleep next to him on top of the bed covers, still wearing her day clothes.
She had married him. Despite everything, she had been willing to marry him, to accept what he could give her and marry him.
Darcy rose and sat in the cushioned chair next to the empty fireplace. He watched how a curl of hair fluttered over her forehead in the draft.
Her cheeks glowed in the early morning light. The lips were a lovely soft red. He thought that it must have been uncomfortable to sleep in her clothes like that. She had removed her stockings, and he admired her bare ankles and toes.
Darcy wanted to wake her up with a kiss.
“Mama! Mama! Papa Darcy! Papa Darcy!” George banged on the door between the bedrooms and the sitting room.
Elizabeth woke with a start, yawned, and she said in a voice that was too low and controlled toquitebe a shout, “Wait a little. Just a half minute.” His wife stretched, looked around, and when she saw Darcy looking at her, she gave him a glorious wide, unselfconsciously happy smile.
Darcy’s heart leapt.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning, Mrs. Darcy,” he replied, smiling.
Chapter Twenty
During the night after they arrived at Darcy’s London house, Darcy woke from his recurrent dream where Wickham deloped, and despite that he shot him in a cold rage. His heart raced, and he was alone. He wished Elizabeth was sleeping with him, like the first night.
Darcy immediately went across to the mistress’s suite of room so that he could find Elizabeth.
She was already awake, sitting in her dressing room. She smiled at her own face, while her hair was worked upon by the maid who had been hired by his people in London to serve as her lady’s maid, if they suited.
She warmly greeted Darcy, “And what doyouthink of Hester’s work?”
“I do not know,” Darcy replied. She looked lovely, but somehow a little more like every woman he met at a ball or a dinner. More like a society woman. “It looks slightly odd to see you wearing your hair in a different way. I think this is not a style you could easily manage on your own.”
Elizabeth laughed. “And youdidknow why I have so strongly preferred simple buns.”
“You are a practical woman,” he smiled at her, and looked about for a stool to sit on. “I have always liked that.”
“Is that your way of saying that youpreferthe bun?—Hester, do give Mr. Darcy that chair, thank you, thank you. I think the hair is managed, you may go down, and I shall call you when I put on a dress to go out.”
